


I Took An Axe

by merryhouse



Series: Here's Why [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-06
Updated: 2013-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-28 10:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/673268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merryhouse/pseuds/merryhouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa was of the North, once, and she has spent so long south that while the North Remembers, she herself cannot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Took An Axe

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, uh, wow, thank you for reading the first part of this, and this part, too (maybe?). That was a lovely surprise. This was an absolute fiend to write, having grown its own mind about halfway through, and mutating into something far longer than I had anticipated. Freaky. It's set about three or four weeks after the end of Season After Season, where Westeros is in mourning for its dead as the high lords meet in the capital to discuss the future of the realm. Also, remember how I said that this was a resolution of sorts of the end of the previous part? Yes, well, bear the "of sorts" bit heavily in mind, I might suggest.

_"…I took an axe_

_to a willow to see how it wept. I took an axe to a salmon_

_to see how it leapt. I took an axe to the wolf_

_as he slept, one chop…"_

from **Little Red Cap** , Carol Ann Duffy

 

* * *

 

Sansa doesn't remember the journey from the Eyrie to King's Landing, not beyond days spent peering out from the gauzy white of a wheelhouse and nights spent in taverns, clutching her stomach protectively as the weathervane on the roof spins wildly. When she thinks about it, she can almost smell the salty air of the Bay of Crabs and the damp freshness passing by Maidenpool, but then, whether that's memory or wistful imagination, she isn't sure. Looking back, all she can think of is the cloistered, hazy half-silence of the wheelhouse, the rhythmic jarring of the wheels beneath her, and the way she couldn't sleep, for all eight days.

 

When she arrives in the capital Harry is there to meet her, having himself arrived at the capital in time for the siege, and he folds her into his arms and pets her hair.

 

"Alayne," he breathes, and Sansa's insides twist because they are in full view of the court, and even if twin dragons sit on the throne, she cannot bring herself to imagine that there are no lions left to want her dead. She doesn't say this, though, and if she looks into Harry's eyes and tries to return his smile then she can pretend that the unfamiliar faces around her are amorphous smears of red and brown and beige in the flickering candle light, and she can breathe a little. So.

 

"My lord," she says, pulling back to drop into a curtsy, "I am glad you are well."

 

"Aye," he grins, "As am I, sweetling, to be sure."

 

He nods, and Sansa ponders the stiffness in his neck as he does so, wonders if that was always something he did or if it is a crick newly acquired.

 

"Was your journey well, my love?" he asks her, touching two fingers under her chin.

 

"It was," Sansa says, truthfully, "Ser Marwyn was a fine escort."

 

Harry smiles.

 

"Of course he was, I made sure to send you only the very best."

 

He hesitates. Sansa clasps her hands before her.

 

"And will you sup, my dear? We were not expecting you tonight, of course, though it is a happy surprise. Much and many of the lords and ladies have retired to their rooms, though we can send for food from the kitchens? They had your favourite oxtail soup tonight, I do think there may have been some left…?"

 

He is watching her with such an earnest, open expression on his handsome face, and Sansa's stomach twists as she looks up at him, looks over the cut on his lip and the yellowing bruise along the socket of his left eye.

 

"I would like that, my lord," she says, "I have grown weary of tavern food, these past nights. I have consumed enough potatoes to last a lifetime, I think."

 

Harry always laughs on the rare occasions that Sansa makes a joke- out of genuine humour or otherwise, she knows not- and now is not any different, the startled, rich laughter bubbling up and out of his chest as he takes her arm in his and leans in close.

 

"How I have missed you, my dear," he says, and if oxtail has made Sansa queasy during her pregnancy, she doesn't mention it.

 

* * *

 

Sansa cannot recall the last time she saw her brother, nor the last time she saw Myrcella Lannister, but the sight of crimson hair is like a blade to her chest, and when she blinks the light catches on green and gold, and she recoils before either have the chance to see her. It is not quite as her lord husband has said: half of the court, perhaps, are still in the great hall, the high table all in black and the walls bedecked with banners of every house colour. Sansa's breath feels like stone in her chest, and she gives Theon Greyjoy (is that _truly_ him? She sees that the hand clutching at his goblet is missing fingers, but the half-smirk on his face is familiar enough) only the most perfunctory of glances before she looks away.

 

"Harry," she whispers, tugging urgently at his jerkin with the hand tucked into his elbow, "Harry, I can't-"

 

He stops walking in an instant, whatever sentence he was saying dying on his lips and petering off, and looks at her with concern, "What is it? Sweetling, is it the babe? Do we need-"

 

He looks around frantically, "Should I send for the maester?"

 

"No," Sansa says firmly, not wanting to do anything that will attract further attention to them, "No, Harry, I only… it happens, at night, when I am tired, and the babe… I am fatigued, is all, I think, I- I must sleep."

 

She lays her free hand on her belly for emphasis, though there is no such affliction at present, but she cannot bear to step over the threshold and face everything she has so desperately tried to store away and forget.

 

"Are you sure?" Harry smooths back her dark hair, cups her jaw in his large hands, "You must eat, Alayne. For both you and the babe. I'll- I'll take you to our chambers and then send for some food myself, alright?"

 

"Yes," Sansa nods, "Yes, thank you, Harry. I'm sorry…"

 

"Do not be sorry," he says, wrapping an arm around her waist, "You have nothing to be sorry for, my lovely wife. The war is over, we are together again, and we are having a child! None of that is occasion for sorrow. Tonight you shall rest. And all will be well come morning, you'll see."

 

Later, when Sansa is lying in silence as she awaits Harry's return from the kitchens, she pulls a strand of her hair- dark brown as varnished teak- over her shoulder, feels it slip between her fingers. _I could let it grow out_ , she thinks, staring absently at the plastered ceiling, _I could wash it in scalding water and the juice of lemons and I could brush it out and ask Harry to call me Sansa. Who is there left to try to hurt me now? There are few left who know, now, and most who do have lost interest, anyway._

 

She shuts her eyes. She has spent many a night staring at her ceiling and imagining alternative histories for herself: she must have lived and died a thousand lives, all of them free of bloodshed and terror, and all of them fled before the morning light. There was one story that never left, though, bleeding her dry everyday in its completion, and the ceilings of King's Landing are ornate and familiar, a reminder of that one haunting story that refused to depart.

 

I _could speak to the Northern King. I could ask him to set aside my marriage to Harry by making it void in the North, I could ask him to take me back to Winterfell as his sister and allow me to live in the snow in peace and in the place of my childhood. The babe..._

 

Her hand falls to the swell of her belly, still modest but unmistakable for what it is, and her fingers curl in the cloth of her dress.

 

_I could return to the Vale, and live out my days as Alayne Hardyng, bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. I would be Lady of the Vale, married to a handsome knight, and give him pretty children to fill the Eyrie, just like in the songs I loved as a girl. I could love Harry, maybe, though perhaps not so much as he seems to love me._

 

_Alayne._

_(Me?)_

 

The word echoes in her head until Harry returns with a trencher of pea and lamb soup, an apple, and a pitcher of ale, and holds Sansa's elbow as she sits up. Sometimes, she tries to pinpoint exactly what she must have done to inspire Harry's affection for her, but she can never quite decide what it was that made her so deserving of his startling tenderness.

 

"I know you are fond of the oxtail, sweet," he says, once he has settled the tray in her lap and moved around the bed to sit by her side, "But one of the kitchen women said it might turn your stomach, with the babe, so I decided the pea and lamb would be better."

 

He is watching her anxiously, and Sansa smiles, though she feels like she wants to cry.

 

"Thank you, Harry." she bites her lip, "You are always such a good husband to me."

 

"I try to be," Harry says with a smile, and Sansa brushes her lips against his because she thinks she will weep, otherwise, "For you are more lovely a wife than I deserve, truly."

 

 _If only you knew the truth of it,_ Sansa thinks, spearing a piece of lamb _, I don’t think you would believe such a thing._

 

* * *

 

They get lost in the castle the next morning, on their way to break their fast, because Sansa turns out to be incorrect in her insistence that she remembers her way around the Red Keep. She tries to orient herself by the tapestries hanging the walls, but of course the Dragon King and Queen have had most of them torn down, and many of the rooms are closed and locked off, the corridors silent and empty. Harry doesn't seem to mind, though, taking it in stride when they find themselves halfway up a winding staircase and Sansa admits that she can make neither heads nor tails of where they are.

 

"Such a large castle," Harry says cheerfully, tracing a mortar perpend with his finger, "It's a wonder most people don't spend half their days lost in it, as it is."

 

Thankfully they don't spend half their day lost in it; after a few minutes of despondency where Harry absently wonders what's being served for breakfast and Sansa laments the fact that there are likely to be eggs, there are footsteps on the stairwell, and they both look up to see Petyr Baelish taking the steps two at a time, mockingbird bright on his mourning blacks.

 

“Lord Petyr,” Harry says, straightening, “Good morning.”

 

"Lord Harrold. Just the man I wanted to see," Petyr says loudly, once he reaches them, his voice echoing in the narrow stairwell. He dips his head at Sansa, "And my lovely daughter. You are looking well, sweetling. How is the babe?"

 

"Father," Sansa says, curtsying in response, “Well, I think. Much better now that our journeying is over. I am glad to see you.”

 

“The pleasure is mine, sweet,” Petyr says, kissing her cheek swiftly, “And in a realm no longer at war! A good day, for true.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Sansa says, and Petyr looks at her for a moment, only the briefest shadow of interest registering on his face, more before turning to Harry.

 

"Were you coming to find me? I've not yet broken my fast, but I did need to speak to you. As do your men, I’m told."

 

"No, no," Harry says, "We actually took a wrong turn going down to the hall and have found ourselves… er, lost, as it happens."

 

He glances at Sansa and she knows that her discomfort is not showing on her face, in the mask of placidity she has long since mastered, when Petyr grimaces.

 

"Astonishingly large castle, isn’t it? Royalty. Confounds me every time."

 

Sansa wants to comment on his familiarity with the castle, this shape shifting man before her who has insinuated himself into every house to control the Iron Throne during his lifetime, and she wonders how anyone can trust a man who is surely lying every time his lips move. Still, he pays her little heed beyond his greeting, as he is wont to do when he has no need for her. She thinks that it is lucky that Petyr never truly had any children of his own, for if he had they would surely be a condemned to a lifetime of such treatment, instead of just the few years that Sansa has suffered.

 

She trails a little behind them as they walk to the hall, catching only snatches of their conversation as she tries to imagine the castle eight, nine years ago, as it would have been when she was last in its corridors. But the castle has not escaped the passage of time, it seems, no more than those within it, and Sansa's memories only flicker and fade wherever she looks and blinks. On the third floor (or is it the forth? she loses count after the seventh left turn), the candelabras are rusted, the cornices covered over with dusty grey cobwebs, and the stone cool with the oncoming winter. The Red Keep had been warm once, as paradoxically warm and dangerous as the name implied, but it is as though its lifeblood has bled completely dry, and Sansa, in its veins, is left cold.

 

* * *

 

Sansa cannot summon the names of half the lords who come to speak to Harry at breakfast, for many lands and seats have changed hands over the war, and so many faces sit unfamiliar to her under half forgotten sigils. Some men at the second table over ask after her lord husband, and she doesn't even bother to check their sigils as Harry takes his leave.

 

"I will only be a few moments, my lady," Harry says courteously, straightening his jerkin, "Unless you would like to accompany me?"

 

"No," Sansa says, "That is fine."

 

Of course, that's when Robb Stark walks in, cheeks flushed and with a book under his arm. In a white linen shirt and no doublet, his plain clothes beguile his status as a King and betray his discomfort in the warmth of the south. Sansa looks down at her own dress, heavy gabardine to fight off the chill of the swelling winter, and wonders if things have really changed quite so much. When she looks back up, it's only to see that the King is approaching her table, the set of his jaw determined and hand white knuckled around the book he holds. Her mind flashes to many years earlier, and she sees an indistinct child with blue eyes and red hair wearing the same expression, trying to mount their first pony. Before she can decide whom exactly the child is- or give the expression time to morph into darker, sharper features equally as familiar- the King clears his throat and she looks up.

 

"Your grace," she says hurriedly, sliding off the bench to curtsy, and there's a flash behind his eyes that she tries to ignore, alongside the twisting pang of guilt that shoots through her abdomen.

 

"Sansa?" he says quietly, "Sansa-"

 

Sansa shakes her head hurriedly, biting down on the inside of her lower lip, and he frowns.

 

"Please, Sansa, do you not-"

 

"Stop calling me that, your grace," Sansa grits, "I think perhaps you have me mistaken for someone else. I am Lady Alayne, wife to Lord Harrold Hardyng of the Vale."

 

"What…?" The King digs the heel of a palm into his eye, "Sansa, it's only me, there is no need-"

 

"I'm not her," she says, urging herself to suppress the panic rising in her throat when she looks around and sees Harry still deep in conversation with his bannermen, "Please."

 

“ _Not her_? You…”

 

“No. I am Alayne Hardyng- born Stone- daughter to Lord Petyr Baelish of The Fingers, now Harrenhal.”

 

The King pauses.

 

"Why did you call me 'your grace', then?" he asks urgently, his voice dangerously quiet, "If you are who you say you are, you are of the South, and I am no king to you."

 

It is a weak argument and he knows it, if the way he frowns and rakes a hand through his hair (and it's so red, Sansa doesn't remember hair ever being that _red_ ) is any indication.

 

"They don't know," she whispers, finally, after she stares at his familiar-unfamiliar face in silence and he is the one to look away. Unexpectedly, he scoffs. It’s either out of scorn or disbelief, neither of which are expressions Sansa remembers this man as having worn, in the stretched-thin span of her memories.

 

" _They_ were the ones who told me that you were here. I've been- I've been looking for you, and Arya, so many years past. I came here for you, Sansa. My crown, this title- everything was... And last night, word about court was that you'd finally arrived, only calling yourself by a different name. And…you've dyed your hair, but you- I would recognise you anywhere, gods, you look just like-"

 

"He doesn't know," Sansa says hurriedly, because she knows what the next word to that sentence was going to be, and she doesn't want to hear it. "Please, don't tell him."

 

"He?" The King looks around, startled, and follows Sansa's gaze to Harry, curses under his breath, "Gods, Sansa, your husband? You haven't told your husband?"

 

He doesn't raise his voice, something for which Sansa is grateful, though there is something brewing in the way his expression darkens and his jaw clenches.

 

"The need to has never arisen," Sansa says quietly, truthfully, and he makes a noise of incredulity.

 

"And you intend to keep it that way?"

 

"Yes," Sansa says, "Please. I am with child, and he loves me, and if you don't walk away now he'll start to wonder what on earth the King in the North could want with me.”

 

The King's mouth falls open as he looks at her with what that looks a lot like disappointment (an arrangement of features that she has learnt to associate with blue eyes and the set of a Tully mouth), and he seems to want to say more before thinking better of it, then picks his book back up from the table and walks away. Sansa supposes that she should feel something other than the dull thudding of her heart in her chest, but after all the time that has passed she rather suspects that there is nothing else to feel.

 

* * *

 

(She's in the library, wandering aimlessly amidst the shelves when she hears the voices, the whispered argument over in the next shelf, and she stills.

 

"- my sister, Cel, I can't just pretend that she's someone's- _Petyr Baelish_ 's- bastard daughter."

 

"I know, Robb. I know. But. It's a name, isn't it? When you met me-" a pause, "When you met me, do you remember how hostile your men were?"

 

"…that was different."

 

"How?"

 

"It was- you have the Lannister look, and you yourself said you couldn't blame them, for being so wary."

 

"Yes. But you? You were kind to me, from the start."

 

A chuckle. 

 

"That is entirely different. I fancied myself half in love with you, from the start."

 

There's silence and then Myrcella laughs, low and breathy, "Oh, no, no, you can't sweet talk your way out of this one, love-"

 

More silence, that same laughing tone.

 

"No- one moment more, Robb. Tell me, when Theon reminded you that I was a Lannister, what did you say?"

 

"That that was just a name, but you were nothing like them."

 

Sansa walks away as quietly as she can, the words 'just a name' ringing in her ears.)

 

* * *

 

She was to be married to Willas Tyrell, she remembers, vaguely, when she encounters him on her way back from the stables. This is the first time that she sees him, and though she tries to summon an image of his now deceased brother Loras for comparison’s sake, she finds that she cannot. For a rose, he is curiously folded in upon himself, with an almost surly set to his jaw, curly hair falling over one eye, and one arm crossed over his chest as he supports himself on a handsomely carved wooden cane. He himself is handsome, Sansa supposes, and she very much doubts that a Tyrell could be anything but, though there is definite shadow and sharpness to him, in the antithesis to Harry, who is bright and golden and open.

 

Sansa feels a wave of discomfort, and when Willas Tyrell stops before her she fusses a moment with her skirt before she makes herself look him in the eye.

 

"My Lady…?"

 

He waits, and she thinks she remembers hearing that Willas Tyrell and the King in the North were friends- acquaintances, at the least- so surely he knows, but Sansa cannot quite bring herself to trust a rose: their propensity to climb on even the most hostile of surfaces is at the back of her mind even as she appreciates the bloom of his petals.

 

"Alayne Hardyng," she says, eventually, and Willas nods. The sigil on his doublet catches the sun, glints gold.

 

"Yes, of course. I don't believe we have met."

 

"We gave not had that pleasure, no, Lord Willas Tyrell of Highgarden," Sansa says, "Though I know who you are."

 

 _I was to be your wife,_ she thinks, _I was to meet you as Sansa Stark, and you were to allow me to keep my name._

 

"Of course," he says, his eyes lingering on her face for a beat too long, "…forgive me, my lady, only you- I thought. I am sorry."

 

Sansa watches his cheeks colour, and he is not quite an unbroken knight from one of the many stories she has spun to wrap herself in at night, but still she is intrigued with the idea of everything that could have been.

 

"Was your journey from the Vale well?' Willas asks carefully and Sansa nods stiffly.

 

"Yes, my lord.”

 

“It is a lovely place, I am told,” he says, clasping and unclasping his hands behind his back, “Though I am yet to visit.”

 

“Oh, but you must,” Sansa says politely, “It is such beautiful country. As is the Reach, I have heard.”

 

“Yes,” Willas says, averting his eyes, “Very beautiful. As beautiful as Eyrie, they say. Though- the two are very different geographically, of course. Perhaps in ways beyond mere topography, also.”

 

“Perhaps,” Sansa agrees, “They are, after all, very far apart.”

 

Willas looks up and holds her gaze, and Sansa sees it in his eyes: that same knowledge of a chance come and gone, and she feels her chest clench just a little, before it releases and Willas frowns.

 

 “Very far apart,” he says quietly, “It is strange, is it not? How two things, both part of one larger whole, can start the same and yet end up so far removed?”

 

“Lord Tyrell?” Sansa asks, in a voice far sharper than she intends, and Willas shakes his head.

 

“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he looks away, “I am too familiar. I only…”

 

He looks up for a moment, inhaling through his teeth, before his mouth twists into something that must have been an attempt at a smile, but comes off instead as a stiff grimace.

 

“I wish you and Lord Harrold the best, with the babe on the way. Every happiness. And I was sorry. To hear about your… stepmother. Lady Lysa.”

 

There is no doubt, now, that Willas is every bit as aware of Sansa’s true identity as she, and Sansa nods.

 

“Thank you, my Lord. I must return to the castle now, my Lord husband is expecting me.”

 

“Of course,” Willas says hurriedly, “Yes, of course. Good day, Lady Alayne.”

 

Sansa nods again, and there are a few horrible moments of silence, where Willas stands firmly in place, and she, face burning, is the one to walk away.

 

* * *

 

The trials begin with the Queensmen: the entirety of Joffrey’s court and those of the Lannister household who did not turn their cloak are brought before the high lords of Westeros in a parade of golden hair and Westerland sigils. Sansa excuses herself after another of the Braxes of Hornvale’s men is sentence to exile, telling Harry that it is mother’s stomach, and declining his offer to accompany her outside for fresh air. She is halfway through the entrance hall when she encounters a great hulk of a man, clad in dusty rags and bound between two mailed guards as they lead him into the great hall beyond. His hair is dark and falling in his face, but Sansa would have recognized those burns anywhere, obscured or not, and she stops in her tracks.

 

“Sandor Clegane,” she says, against her better judgment, and he looks up from between greasy strands of hair, jerks at the chains binding him.

 

“So the little bird flew back to the nest after all,” he says mockingly, “What pretty songs have you learnt since you’ve been gone, girl? Sing one for me, won't you? It’s been years since this dog’s ever heard a song.”

 

“And you will not hear one from me,” Sansa says, “I am not anyone’s pet.”

 

“So they were lying when they said you’d married the Young Falcon? You’re playing at being a hunting bird, yes, but you’re still just a pretty little _bird_ -“

 

“A pretty little bird that has survived a war that you will not, _ser_ ,” she interjects, using the same title she once afforded him as a girl, only the tone entirely different from the one she had used then.

 

Sandor makes a noise of disbelief, a deep guttural noise from the back of his throat, and the guards finally manage to shift him where he is refusing to take a step.

 

“You used to be so scared of everything that breathed,” he says, “I liked that about you. Hells, that’s what _everyone_ liked about you.”

 

Sansa flinches.

 

“I am not that girl anymore.”

 

“No…” Sandor looks her over, head to toe, “No, you’re not the girl I remember.”

 

 _Good_ , Sansa thinks as he is led away,  _If nothing can be as_ I _remember it, than neither do you deserve that small mercy._

 

* * *

 

 

Cersei is smaller than she remembers, and Sansa wonders if it is the iron chains binding her ankles and wrists or the way her beautiful golden hair has been cut short that gives the effect that she is shrinking. Still, the deposed Queen Mother is ferocious during her trial, standing before the court in a Lannister crimson dress pulled from gods know where, and the Dragon King and Queen do little to hide their disgust in her presence. When she is sentenced she screams, a shrill and terrifying sound that could mean many things (Sansa is sure, _sure_ it is not surprise, because, really, what else had she expected?), and turns until she is facing Myrcella, in the front row near the high table, chin determinedly raised.

 

"You'll watch me _burn_ , daughter?" Cersei spits, and Sansa startles a little, ignoring the curious look Harry sends her in response, because she is certain that the Cersei of her memories was never quite so plain in her speech.

 

"You'll call yourself kinslayer, wear the name with pride? I hope you rot in hell, you ungrateful bitch, with that sorry old man you wanted so badly to call your father! I did you a favour, sparing you from his filthy drunkard blood, and you… _you_." the court watches in silent horror as Cersei gathers her skirts and shuffles toward the barrier around the tiered seats of the court, and there is the scrape of armour as the guards rise, until-

 

"ENOUGH!"

 

The roar does not come from the Dragon King, not as Sansa would have expected, and instead all heads turn to look at the King in the North, who has risen in his seat at the high table and tense with tightly coiled rage. Cersei smiles, and that, _that_ , is exactly as Sansa remembers.

 

"Of course," she says sweetly, as Robb resumes his seat, eyes alight in fury, "My apologies. But do forgive me if I will not call you _your grace_ , I don't bow to any foreign Kings, and not least of all to foreign _boys_."

 

"You will accord King Robb the respect he deserves," the Dragon King warns, " _Your_ King commands you."

 

"Oh?" Cersei arches an eyebrow, and there is something about her that Sansa still cannot place, but seems to grasp the whole court, also, for the Dragon King falls silent, "And if I disobey? Will you have me killed? You forget, Aegon Targaryen, that you were reared on a _poleboat_. That would fit my definition of foreign boy- and as such, my earlier statement stands."

 

She turns back to Myrcella, frown on her face smoothing with ominous speed, "Now. There was talk that you were a beauty, daughter. Of course, given your mother and father, this is no great surprise- and yet, I find your face curiously… imbalanced. Is it the ear, perhaps, or the scar? No matter, since I’m told you’ve found yourself a king-"

 

" _Guards_ ," the Dragon Queen says sharply, "Remove this woman. Lock her away somewhere we are like to forget about her until the day of her execution."

 

The guards take Cersei’s arms, and she struggles viciously in their grip, nails swiping like claws as they all but drag her out.

 

"But we never did get to talk about your wifely duties! If these are to be my last words to you, _daughter_ , I offer you this advice: when you are fucking your Northern Wolf, Myrcella," Cersei calls over her shoulder, " _Do_ be sure to scream for him. You're all Lannister, for true, but gods know if anyone's ever heard you roar."

 

There's a collective gasp and Sansa lays a hand over her mouth in shock, looks to Robb at the high table, his mouth open in surprise, and beside her, Harry swears under his breath in bewildered sympathy. Myrcella herself does not so much as blink, only inclining her head to look Cersei in the eye.

 

"And nor do I see reason to, mother. My house words are _ours is the fury_."

 

Sansa sees in her mind a blonde whippet of a girl, protective of her younger brother and wearing a Baratheon black ribbon in her hair, and for the first time she finds that she can look at the grown woman before her and not see Joffrey, or everyone that has ever tormented her with words as golden as their hair and eyes bright as the future they promised. Clutching at Harry's hand with a grip that is sure to be bruising, she watches as Cersei shuffles from the hall, chains dragging along the ground, and realises that she is no longer afraid of her. She doesn't stop to wonder if it is comfort come too late, and tells herself that there is no such thing.

 

* * *

 

There was a time, Sansa remembers, when Margaery Tyrell was the prettiest young lady at court, as lively and colourful as any of the roses of Highgarden. Those days have long since passed, however, and the Margaery Baratheon that Sansa happens upon in the gardens is but a withered bloom, closed up and wrinkled, though still bearing the remaints of past beauty. Her face is drawn and pale beneath her braided hair, and her blacks are too loose where her figure is almost horrifically thin. She wears the loss of her brothers plain on her face, and Sansa for a moment debates turning and walking in the opposite direction, preferring that to the conversation that is sure to follow.

 

“My lady,” she says instead, approaching Margaery and waiting to gauge her reaction, the heels of her boots crunching in the gravel.

 

Margaery looks up, and Sansa thinks that with eyes that wide and frightened, perhaps she is truly a doe, after all.

 

“Oh,” she says softly (and that’s not right, Sansa doesn’t remember much about Margaery’s personality that was _soft_ , or quiet, or anything other than bold and bright and vivacious), “ _Oh_.”

 

“Lady Margaery?” Sansa tries cautiously, as though dealing with a skittish animal, and Margaery blinks.

 

“ _Sansa_ Stark? But no- it can’t be, they said you were dead. You can’t have-,” Margaery frowns, “And what have they done to your beautiful hair?”

 

It is quiet in the gardens, empty because of the time of day, and Margaery’s voice is soft enough that Sansa has to strain to hear it even in the silence. It is unnerving, almost, and Sansa sorely wishes that she had turned on her heel and fled, as was her first instinct.

 

“I am a lady of the Vale, now,” she says, “I- we had to… I hid. We faked my death during the war, to stop the Lannisters coming for me.”

 

She is expecting Margaery to laugh, to say that _Obviously_ , _they faked your death_ , or _does Lady of the Vale require you to have hair in that ghastly colour_? Or even _Just who is_ we _? (You left them here, left them with me, while you ran away. You let them come for_ me _in your place)_ But perhaps that is only what the Margaery she remembers would have done, and Sansa is coming to accept that the things that she remembers and the things that _are_ in actuality are never the same, anymore.

 

“I see,” Margaery says, nodding shortly, “That was a clever trick.”

 

Sansa shifts on her feet.

 

“We had to do it,” she says in a voice that sounds thin, even to her.

 

“Of course,” Margaery says, “One has to protect oneself, in times of war.”

 

There is more silence, and Margaery squints up at Sansa as the sun emerges from behind a cloud.

 

“My condolences for your losses, Lady Margaery,” Sansa says, and Margaery tilts her head in a way that Sansa remembers from when they were in the capital together, only now the effect is less coquettish and more unnerving, for Margaery’s dazed, wide eyes.

 

“For Garlan or Loras?” she asks, rising from her bench, voice still disturbingly quiet, “Everyone seems sorry that they are gone. What of my husbands? Joffrey and Tommen? Renly? Who, truly, are you sorry for? _Which one_? Because I’ve lost them _all_ , you know.”

 

“Margaery-“

 

“Because you’ve got to tell me,” Margaery says pleadingly, “You must tell me, _please_ , because it is my understanding that I am to mourn for my brothers but not for either of my Lannister husbands, but please- I’ve _lost_ them all.”

 

“I can’t tell you who to mourn for,” Sansa says in confusion, “I-“

 

“You have to tell me what to _do_ ,” Margaery continues, mounting hysteria in her words, “Somebody always tells me, and now there’s nobody, and…“

 

She falters.

 

“Gods,” Sansa says, aghast, “Margaery, what have they done to you?”

 

“Only what they wanted to do to you,” Margaery says, after an uncomfortable pause, “You were stronger, I suppose.”

 

“No, Margaery, don’t say that, that’s not true,” Sansa says quickly, “You are- you are a Tyrell. Margaery Tyrell. You are as strong as I, if not more so.”

 

“ _Growing_ strong,” Margaery says bitterly, “But those are no longer my words, I suppose. I am thrice a Baratheon, now, so there is nothing for me but fury.”

 

“Women are never allowed to keep the name of the house into which we are born,” Sansa says, “But that doesn’t mean that we aren’t to keep their words.”

 

Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls, and Margaery looks up at Sansa.

 

“What words do you keep, then?”

 

Sansa tries to answer, but the words don’t come.

 

* * *

 

She watches the way that the Northern King moves, and she is reminded so much of the father she once knew, all quiet confidence and assured calm. But when he speaks there's a fire burning bright behind his eyes and expansive hand gestures in a way that never was very Stark, and so instead Sansa sees is a woman with long red hair and a wide smile ( _who looked just like_ \- no).

 

"You don't have to stay in the south, you know," comes a voice from behind her, and Sansa, startled, turns.

 

"My lord," she says stiffly, when she sees that it is the Imp, badly scarred now and diminutive in black, yet unmistakable for those eyes, if not his stature. It occurs to her that she has not seen him since they were man and wife, before she fled to the vale (before, before…), and she wonders if what she has done requires his forgiveness, or even her repentance.

 

"Lady Sansa," he says, climbing onto the bench next to her, "It has been some time since we saw each other last, I think."

 

"Indeed, my Lord," Sansa says, too surprised by the name that he is calling her to correct him, or beseech him to lower his voice.”

 

"Yes. And you have changed."

 

“I am not the only one, it seems,” she responds, and Tyrion regards her curiously.”

 

"You prove my point. Once, you would have- but no. I was saying- you don't have to stay in the south. You could have your brother spirit you away. The time for wolves is upon the north, and- after all, well, you've done it before."

 

Sansa scrutinises him, this man who had once shown her kindness, basic at best, but far more than what she had been used to at the time. He has changed, now, for certain: is smaller and sharper and bitter, as hard and whorled as the scars marking his face.

 

"I am not going to run away," she says levelly, "Harry is my husband now."

 

"Ah,” he says, “Ah, yes, but the Young Wolf is your family. How many Starks are left? How many Tullys? There are enough Stones in this world, to be sure. _Family_ , duty, honour, I believed it was."

 

"I am a Hardyng," Sansa says, "Family, _duty_ , honour, and my duty is to my husband, now."

 

"And honour?" Tyrion's mouth twists up into a ghastly approximation of a smile, "The ever troublesome _honour_. Everybody speaks of it but it seems as though none live it quite so truly as the Starks, for all the good that brought them. I wonder that they should cleave so closely to honour to begin, when their words are more of a weather forecast, if anything."

 

" _Don't_ you dare speak of my family-"

 

"But yes," Tyrion says, cutting over her words, "You are of the Eyrie, now. Where you are, I believe it was, _as high as honour_? Curious, that you should call the Starks 'my family' when you claim to be a Hardyng now."

 

He smirks at Sansa and she feels something snap like an overstretched bowstring in her chest.

 

"Why, _my lord_ , are you so invested in my return to the North? It can be of no benefit to you. Unless," she looks down at him coldly, "Unless, you intend to be rid of me so you can marry Harry yourself?"

 

He laughs, then, sharp and unexpected, and for some time they sit in the silence that his laughter leaves behind.

 

"No. No, my lady, it appears time has eroded your courtesies more than I thought.”

 

 _I am not a child anymore_ , Sansa says, _and those courtesies did me no good_.

 

He sobers, "Sansa, the importance of family cannot be overstated."

 

"And I am to listen to you?" Sansa asks in disgust, " _You_ would speak to me about family?"

 

"As a Lannister," he says, "Yes. My _family_ tore this realm apart because we couldn't stand the sight of each other- well, my siblings enjoyed the sight of each other perhaps _too much_ \- and I can’t help but think it could have all been prevented.”

 

Sansa, unbidden, looks back over to the high table, looks at Robb and wonders if somewhere in the North Rickon looks like him, now, red hair and blue eyes, and if Bran is by now as dark and sharp and somber as her father was.

 

"He is your brother, Sansa. Deny it though you might. You were children together, of the same blood. You cannot imagine the losses you will suffer if your turn your back on that.”

 

"I _cannot imagine_?" Sansa asks, incredulous, "Do you think me unfeeling, my lord? _Every day_ I long for my home, for my siblings, for my parents. But that is all gone, now, and there is no way to get it back."

 

"No way?"

 

"No _honourable_ way," Sansa says bitterly, "As I have pointed out, my husband is my family now, and my duty lies with him, so there I shall remain, also."

 

"Ah," Tyrion says, "Ah, well. It is a good thing that you are _as high as honour_ , isn't it? Honour is whatever you make it. Remember that."

 

* * *

 

Sansa is nine days in the capital before she speaks to Myrcella Baratheon; by now able to look at the face that is so clearly Lannister without a rolling wave of fear at the back of her mind. It is at a requiem service in the sept, through the thick fog of incense and candle smoke, and Sansa watches through the hazy candlelight as Myrcella enters with Robb, sees her touch his arm and then turn as he exits.

 

"Lady Sansa,” she says quietly, once Sansa has fixed her gaze resolutely on the statue of the Mother, and Myrcella has seated herself to her left.

 

"Lady Myrcella," she says in response, smoothing her skirts out, watching as the Septon fans the incense.

 

"Are you well?" Myrcella asks, and Sansa bites her lip.

 

"Yes, thank you. And you?" she turns, having decided that she can no longer avoid eye contact without appearing rude.

 

"As well as can be, I suppose," Myrcella says wryly, digging the toe of her boot into a crack in the stone floor. "It has been many years since I have last been in a sept.”

 

"Many years," Sansa repeats, and Myrcella sighs.

 

"I am- I know that this comes too late, and from the wrong person, perhaps, but I am so sorry for what they did to you. If I could have done anything to stop them, I- I am sorry. Please know that."

 

"You were but a child," Sansa murmurs, barely audible to herself over the rushing in her ears, "You couldn't have done anything."

 

"We were all just children. Joffrey was _but a child_ ," Myrcella says bitterly, her voice rising just enough for Sansa to frown, before she catches herself and quietens, "And the things he _did_.”

 

In her lap, one of her hands clenches into a fist, unclenches.

 

“And this- this is not enough. It is not enough, I know, but I am sorry that anything happened at all, that it happened to you- and just as sorry for the fact you will not ever get any other apologies. So- please. I offer this one, now."

 

Sansa doesn't tell her that _it's alright,_ or _I understand_ , because it's not, and she doesn't (probably never will), because Myrcella looks just enough like her mother to make Sansa uncomfortable. In spite of the scarring on her cheek, the disfigured ear, she is still pretty, vivid and alive in a way that Sansa both resents and envies. Still-

 

"We were friends, once," she says, looking Myrcella in the eye, drawing a breath, "And I hope. In time, that we can be that again, Lady Myrcella."

 

"I would like that," Myrcella says, but she doesn't smile until Sansa does, albeit tentatively, "Lady Hardyng."

 

At the name, Sansa's head jerks involuntarily, startled out of thinking that there is nobody around to overhear them.

 

"I know that you would prefer to be called by your wed name," Myrcella says, "Your brother has discussed it with me. He- he cannot think of you as anyone but Sansa, and it is different for everyone, I know, because he is from a world where he is told that names and what we call people matter."

 

For the first time in years, Sansa thinks of a boy (man, now, she supposes) named Jon Snow, with the face of her father and all the solemnity of a man five times his age. She wonders what became of him, wishes that she had not closed herself to the stories that whispered about him; that she’d listened to them while they were still being told.

 

"He will not tell my Lord Husband, will he?"

 

"No," Myrcella says, surprised, "No, Robb- no. He will not. Robb… though- he has spent almost half his life searching for _Sansa_. You cannot expect him to keep looking forever."

 

Sansa watches the way that Myrcella’s lips form around her brothers name, like it is some special secret that she is keeping, and she envies her that small joy, her own resentment growing sick and heavy in her stomach. She herself has never treasured Harry’s name quite so much, never worn it as a giddy smile, and she pauses.

 

"Do you love him?" she asks, and Myrcella doesn't hesitate, doesn’t blush.

 

"Yes. I know that it might seem soon- and half the time we have known each other has been spent apart- but I do, yes.”

 

Sansa expects a challenge in her eyes: expects that Myrcella will wear some sort of defensiveness against both Sansa’s judgement and that of all the Lords who would want their daughter married to the Northern King in her stead. She is surprised to find in its place a face open and hopeful, almost as though she is seeking Sansa’s approval, and Sansa grants her that, for there is nothing else she can do.

 

"Good," she says, "There is nothing more I can do for my brother, than pray that somebody can give him love quite so fierce as that he gives others."

 

“Thank you,” Myrcella says, a smile spreading on her face, and Sansa returns a small one of her own.

 

 _I hope it is like the songs I remember_ , Sansa thinks, _like all those songs and poems and stories where there was always enough love for everyone, and it never turned sour._

 

* * *

 

It is on the night that Raymund Frey is sentenced to die for the murder of Catelyn Stark that everything finally unravels, and for not the first time Sansa can blame none other than Petyr Baelish. The men of the Vale sit with the Northmen and their King, drinking to the memory of the murdered Lady of Winterfell, the sister of the ill-fated Lady of the Vale, when it happens.

 

“Such loveliness,” Petyr rhapsodises loudly after his umpteenth cup of wine, “Such _loveliness_ yet unmatched by any other I have ever seen. Those Tully features-“

 

Sansa looks up, heart in her throat, and Petyr is looking straight at her.

 

“Tully features of the like that one does not find, anymore, except perhaps in the Young Wolf or even- my _daughter_ …”

 

“The Northern King and your bastard _daughter_? How much’ve you drunk, Littlefinger?” Lothor Brune hoots, “Bit bloody much, I think!”

 

Sansa looks away, but beside her, Harry regards her curiously, looking further down the table to where Robb has returned to his discussion with Theon and a bearded Northman, obviously rattled by Petyr’s outburst.

 

"It is strange," Harry says, "He is correct about the likeness between you and King Robb- I have thought, from time to time… "

 

"Yes?" Sansa asks, brushing some of Harry's hair away from his collar, noting that it is in need of a trim. He looks over her shoulder, and then back at her face. Further down the tab;e, Sansa sees Robb stealing a glance at them.

 

"Nothing, sweetling. Only- you two have a certain resemblance. Perhaps it's the eyes," Harry muses, smiling, “Both very blue.”

 

"That must be it," Sansa says breathlessly, and Harry laughs.

 

"It must be. Unless, dear wife, you _do_ have some Tully heritage that I don't know of?"

 

He's only teasing, but still Sansa feels her stomach drop, and she reaches for her cup of water, takes a mouthful and swallows it down hurriedly.

 

"Alayne?"

 

Sansa ducks her head, avoiding his eyes, and it is a testament to how one tiny wrong decision can ruin everything- as though that is not a lesson Sansa has learnt time and time again- when he tips her chin up gently with two fingers.

 

"Alayne?"

 

"I'm sorry, Harry, I think I must be overtired, I…"

 

"Is Lady Lysa your-“ Harry starts, "Gods, I thought that was just a rumour."

 

"It's not Lady Lysa," Sansa snaps, drawing her hands away from Harry, "And perhaps this is not the place to discuss this."

 

She rises with as much dignity as she can muster, blindly bidding goodnight to whomever is sat across her, and stalks towards the door. She is in the entrance hall by the time Harry catches up to her, and behind him follows Robb, both of them red-faced and anxious.

 

“Alayne,” Harry says, “What is the matter?”

 

“I can’t-“ Sansa wheels around, grabs a bewildered Robb by the arms and drags him to stand next to her. Even with her hair darkened and the height difference; her brother’s beard and their obvious differences in figures, she knows that the family resemblance is striking, incontrovertible.

 

“Gods be good,” Harry mutters, and Robb inhales sharply through his teeth.

 

“Lord Hardyng-“

 

"Your her…. her what?" Harry tugs at the collar of his shirt, "Her cousin?"

 

Robb makes a strangled noise, and Sansa looks at him pleadingly.

 

"No, Lord Harrold," Robb says carefully, looking sidelong at Sansa, "I am not."

 

"Her _what_ , then?" Harry asks desperately, "Somebody, please, explain this to me, because I don't think that I quite follow. How does Alayne Hardyng, bastard daughter of a Baelish of the Fingers, come to bear such resemblance to the King Stark of the North?"

 

He doesn't even seem angry, only confused, and Sansa thinks that perhaps that is the worst part.

 

"During the war-" Robb starts, staring at his feet, but Sansa interrupts, figuring that the best way to treat an infected limb is to cut it off without further delay.

 

"I was born Sansa Stark of Winterfell, King Robb is my oldest brother."

 

A blanket of silence falls, thick and heavy, and Sansa waits.

 

"What?" Harry gapes at her, "What?"

 

"I..." she feels her resolve evaporate, and as she falters, Harry continues to stare agape, and beside her Robb stands in frozen silence.

 

"Sansa Stark. You were born- Sansa Stark," Harry says slowly.

 

"Yes, but I swear to you, I swear- I am Alayne Hardyng, now," Sansa says, "I-"

 

But hear words all on deaf ears, and Harry turns abruptly to Robb.

 

"I am worth nothing to your crown," he says, bewildered, "Why would you have your sister marry me? The Vale was already sworn to you, why would you have me believe…?"

 

"I didn't know," Robb says shortly, "I fought this war to find my sisters, I never wanted the crown for myself, I have spent the past years thinking my sister was dead."

 

" _She_ has been. Your sister. No, this is a mistake, no," Harry said, "This is Alayne. My _wife_ , Petyr Baelish’s natural born daughter. I knew her when she was just newly a woman…"

 

"No."

 

“No?” Harry echoes.

 

“No,” Robb says quietly, “I know, it is… a mess.”

 

Harry looks back at Sansa, tugging at the neck of his tunic.

 

“And Petyr? He- this is his doing?”

 

“Yes,” Sansa whispers, and Harry shuts his eyes.

 

“Did everyone know of this but me?” His voice is small, hurt- Sansa thinks it would be better if he were angry, truly, because she knows how to deal with anger and spite, but she has no idea what to do with sadness that is not her own.

 

“No,” she says, “No. Not even Lady Lysa- it was meant to protect me- from the Lannisters, I never meant to lie to you, Harry, I swear it.”

 

“And Lady Lysa found out?” Harry croaks, as Robb shifts uncomfortably, stepping back slightly.

 

“Not… not exactly, no,” Sansa says, “She… displeased Petyr.”

 

“Littlefinger-“ Robb starts, but Harry swears.

 

“Petyr? _Petyr_ told me- everything he said, I believed it, all of it- what fool am I?” he glances at Robb, then back at Sansa, “What happened to Lady Lysa, was it- did Petyr…?”

 

“He killed her,” Sansa blurts, the words spilling from her lips before she can even pause to think, “It wasn’t Marillion. _He killed her_ , pushed her out the Moon door, and _he_ is the reason I am Alayne. And you must not ever, ever trust what that man says.”

 

* * *

 

When the dragons hold court next, Sansa approaches the high table with a petition for the arrest and trial of Petyr Baelish of the fingers, the very man the Twin Dragons are considering for the position of Master of Laws. She wears a direwolf pin alongside the red and white diamonds of Hardyng house, her dark hair in a heavy braid over her shoulder.

 

The hall falls silent when she makes her request, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Petyr rise, though his words are silenced by a single gesture of the Dragon Queen.

 

"You come before the court, Lady Hardyng, to accuse Petyr Baelish of the murder of Lysa and Robert Arryn?" she asks, and Sansa straightens her spine.

 

"Yes, your grace."

 

"And of this you are certain? Nobody has offered you coin, lands, or any other benefits to make this petition?”

 

" _No,"_ Sansa says coolly, "I am certain."

 

Regal even in the dark colours of mourning, the Dragon King leans forward in the Iron Throne, fingertips joined beneath his chin.

 

"You mean to say, Lady Sansa, that you witnessed this act with your own eyes? Are you willing to testify against this man?"

 

She takes a deep breath, looks around the hall, from the dragons to Robb to Harry (who nods reassuringly, and she is still searching for whatever it is that has endeared her so to him) to every face that she once knew and has found again, until her eyes land on Petyr, her gaze cold and unwavering.

 

"Oh yes, your grace. I remember."

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've still got things to say about other characters within this particular story (Starks! Tyrells! Literally most everyone who has appeared so far!), I think, so part three is now, maybe, a thing. Though not one inspired by the (super) poem that inspired both this part and the one preceding it. And probably another mutation of a story waiting to happen, really.


End file.
